to her mouth as if covering her face while yawning. “Rockman, they have a surveillance system. See if you can get in it and look for Dean’s suspect.”
“We’re already working on it, Lia, thank you. All right, we have him: gray windbreaker going into Eurostar. No baseball cap. Upstairs.”
“You sure?”
“Go there. Charlie, look at this download on your PDA and make sure we have it right.”
Lia spun around and threaded her way toward the stairway, which was about midway in the platform. She watched from the escalator as Dean sidled up to one of the large metal posts that held the shed roof up and took out his PDA.
“It’s him,” he said.
“Good,” answered Rockman. “He’s going aboard the Eurostar. A good break for us. I’ll have his ID in a second. Go ahead and get aboard.”
Lia walked toward the ticket window, where a customer was thanking a clerk for getting him a spot on the train.
“Not a problem, monsieur,” said the clerk in French. “A lot of last-minute cancellations. The charge is ninety euros for first class.”
“Ninety euros,” muttered Lia. “I don’t have that much cash. What card should I use?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rockman. “Your tickets will be in the system. Just show your passport. Real names; it’s OK. Go.”
Dean came up to the Eurostar level as the other customer fished out his wallet to pay.
“Dump your weapons before you go inside,” continued Rockman. “Duck into those restrooms on the right after you get your tickets. There are no garbage cans inside the waiting area.”
“You want us to go to London?” asked Dean. “Why don’t you just have him arrested?”
“Charlie, we don’t have an ID on him yet,” said Rockman. “And to be blunt, the fact that you may have recognized him from England may not impress the French. It’s their call.”
“You’re going to let him get away,” said Dean, as if he were muttering to himself.
“No. Once he’s on the train he can’t go anywhere. The train can be met in England by the police. He won’t be able to carry a weapon onto the train. You’ll see; the security is tight.”
“If you’re going to have someone meet the train, why should we get on?” asked Dean.
“Things are a little fluid right now, Charlie. Stick with the program, OK? If he gets on the train we’ll be able to deal with it pretty easily. Just follow. There’s a lot of stuff going on here.”
“Art Room knows best,” said Lia sarcastically, reaching into the security belt beneath her jeans for her passport.
75
Donohue walked through the boarding area where the second-class passengers were already queued up. He continued past the small shops that sold refreshments, making his way to the restroom. It was a small crowd for a Eurostar, he thought, maybe a quarter of the normal size, which seemed odd, because the trains were normally much more crowded. He paused at a sink, washing his face and making sure that the stalls were clear. An American tourist was helping his young son at a stall nearby, dad watching over the unlocked door. Otherwise the place was empty.
The assassin turned and walked into a stall on the opposite end, sitting down on the commode.
When he heard the child flush, Donohue took off his windbreaker and unzipped the lining, turning it around so that the jacket was now bright yellow nylon, very different from what he had worn to the station. From his wallet he unfolded a small mustache, applying glue from the center of a roll of Life Savers. Mustache applied, he took out his passport and smeared the rest of the glue on the photo, daubing a tiny amount at the edges as well. Then he removed a replacement page from his pocket, unrolling it carefully and feeding it down carefully. The page was clear except for a new photo, but it had to be put down carefully to preserve the anticounterfeiting impressions. Mucking this up would mean having to pull off the mustache, fairly painful after the thirty seconds it took for the glue to set. But he got it perfectly.
He held the passport page at an angle, making sure there were no flaws.
Passport prepared, he removed a small envelope from behind the license in his wallet. Inside the envelope were two tinted contact lenses to change his eye color. He had trouble getting the first in; the second felt as if he’d jabbed his eye but slipped right into place. In his experience, few people checked the eye color entered on passports — as his experience at the gate proved, since the eye color entered on the document matched the tinted brown effect, not his real eye color, which was a nearly opaque blue. But it was the sort of detail that Donohue insisted on getting right, just in case.
He reached down to his pants and pulled them off, turning them inside out also so that they now appeared to be black sports pants rather than jeans. Psychologically, it was his most vulnerable moment, far worse in his mind than if he’d been caught monkeying with the passport. But this passed as soon as the waist was snapped. He finished his transformation by placing two lift blocks into his shoes, adding another inch and a half to his height. As a last stroke he ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing a bit of coloring cream into the sides. The cream dappled his black a touch gray; he stroked at the side, then took out a comb and straightened it.
He went out and studied the effect in the mirror.
Distinguished.
The loudspeaker announced that the train for London was now boarding. Donohue nodded at the mirror and left the restroom a new man.
76
Mussa felt the sweat pouring from his brow as he finished putting the last cart in place. The perspiration was not from fear; the carts were difficult to maneuver in the confined space at the back of the last first-class coach. He took two real carts and lined them up in front.
This was not what he had planned. He was supposed to be a passenger, sipping complimentary champagne, toasting the death of Ponclare and his father’s ultimate revenge.
Mussa had posted a set of Ponclare’s bank account documents to the Interior Ministry, along with additional information that would make it appear he had hired Vefoures and had LaFoote killed. A small amount of the explosive had been deposited in a warehouse that the police should have no difficulty finding. Ponclare would appear to have been a traitor, profiting by selling explosives to terrorists; the police should have no trouble linking him to the operation at the Eiffel Tower.
And, of course, he would be dead.
Since determining what had happened to his father three years before, Mussa had considered killing the Frenchman himself. Twice Mussa had actually constructed a plan. But simply killing Ponclare had not seemed satisfying enough. Even now, to be honest, he felt cheated — it was Ponclare’s father he truly wished to have revenge on. Killing the son lacked the thrill.
Especially now, sweating like a dog.
Shaming Ponclare would make up for that, somewhat. For if the son was a traitor to France, what did that say about the father?
By extension, Mussa’s father would get the recognition he deserved. He was nearly forgotten now, but as stories of Mussa’s triumph circulated, a few old-timers would resurrect his father’s memory. The family would gain great honor. Exactly as they deserved.
And Mussa would join him in Paradise, basking in the glory of God.
“What are you doing?” barked a voice behind him.
Mussa turned. The train’s master — the person in charge of the serving crew, in this case a woman — stood
